


John's Wardrobe (is being slowly stolen from him)

by ihavebeensherlocked (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothing, Cute followed immediately with angst, Domestic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ihavebeensherlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time John sees Sherlock wearing one of his jumpers around the flat, he stays quiet about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1 (the fluff)

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a sweet fic because I just wanted to write something to go with a drawing I did of John and Sherlock sharing clothes. And then I had Reichenbach feels and wrote a second half that... well, you'll see.

_The first time John sees Sherlock wearing one of his jumpers around the flat, he stays quiet about it. Chalks it up to Sherlock’s attention being too focused on the network of maps and notes currently tacked to the kitchen cabinets and maybe Sherlock grabbed the first thing he found in their small laundry room. So he says nothing about it and is a bit surprised when he finds the jumper folded neatly on his bed three days later. He tries not to think about why he brings the sweater to his face and is disappointed to find that Sherlock’s done him the favor of washing it, leaving no trace of his own scent._  
  
 _The next time John catches Sherlock with one of his shirts, he’s wandered blearily into the kitchen to get tea started. It’s not surprising to find Sherlock hunched over his Microscope on the kitchen table, but the loose-fitting button up hanging off of his frame is entirely out of place. Not sure what else to do, John plucks at the sleeve of the shirt and raises an eyebrow at Sherlock. Sherlock, for his part, keeps his attention on the specimen he’s currently studying, save for a dismissive hand he waves in John’s direction. It’s too early for a row yet, and it’s a small thing, so John just rolls his eyes and puts the kettle on. He watches Sherlock’s back while the water heats, and realizes that the last he saw that shirt it was hanging neatly in his closet. His mouth opens to ask Sherlock what he was doing going through his clothes, but decides even if it’s a bit odd, it’s unimportant._  
  
 __He’s making his way through my wardrobe, _John decides._ Only without my permission. _An experiment? Curiousity? John has asked about it a few times now, and Sherlock always just shrugs the questions off or blithely changes the subject. And really, the clothes always return washed and in good condition and John can find no evidence of tampering of any kind, and now his face grows warm whenever he puts on a jumper he’s seen Sherlock wearing._  
  
 _Eventually it dawns on John that he’s not seen Sherlock wear any of his clothing outside of the flat, which is probably for the best because then people would certainly be talking. And he starts to think of Sherlock sleeping in the Jumpers that hang just a bit too loose on him and really he needs to talk to him about this._  
  
 _A few days after that, Sherlock finds John in his bedroom, shifting through the neat rows of pressed button down shirts hanging in his closet. John’s been there longer than he’d intended, letting his hands ghost along the fine cotton, each shirt probably worth more than most of his own wardrobe.  Sherlock’s eyes flick to the bed, and he sees that the striped shirt, the only one he hasn’t nicked himself is lying across the duvet._

_“I was going to suggest we share, if you’re so keen on wearing my stuff as pyjamas each night anyway. But I think I’d be a bit too nervous to even try any of your stuff on,” John murmers, not even turning to face Sherlock._   
_Instead of responding, Sherlock comes to stand behind John and reaches around him to pluck a familiar purple shirt from it’s hanger._

_“I think this one would rather suit you.” As he says this, Sherlock presses the shirt against John’s chest,_ and surely he can feel how fast my heart is beating _, John thinks before tipping his face towards Sherlocks._


	2. Sherlock's Wardrobe (cannot be given away to strangers)

After the funeral, John shares a taxi back to Baker Street with a sniffling Mrs. Hudson, but still insists he can’t go up to the flat, despite her tearful pleas and promises of biscuits.

The first three weeks after are the worst for him. He gets calls every day, not always the same people, but a regular enough rotation that he quickly works out a pattern.

Lestrade phones every Friday evening to ask him out for a pint. John accepted on the second invitation, but after a night of awkward, stilted conversation Lestrade does not invite him again. He still calls John and tells him mostly about the mountain of paperwork Anderson and Donovan are having to work through, and John doesn’t hang up, but he doesn’t really listen either.

Harry calls every Tuesday and Saturday night. He answers on Tuesdays and lets her talk to him about Clara, but he never picks up on Saturday nights.

Mycroft calls once, to a phone in a coffee house John was sitting in. John tells the server no, he does not want to accept the call, and sits and looks at the black car outside for nearly two hours before it drives away.

He calls Mrs. Hudson every Sunday afternoon. He worries about her, and feels guilty that he hasn’t helped her with the flat. She hasn’t asked again if he’ll come back, doesn’t mention 221b at all, actually, which he’s grateful for. They make idle chit-chat about nothing in particular, but it’s the most comfortable thing John’s found since….since.

——

A month Since, he gets a call on a Wednesday afternoon while he’s at the surgery. He feels the phone buzz in his pocket as he’s inspecting a young girl with what he’s now sure is an ear infection (poor mother doesn’t look like she’s slept properly in days) and lets it ring out (because it’s not _him_ calling him and there’s no one else he would have put work aside for).

Once he’s written a prescription for the girl and sent her and the tired mother away with a sympathetic look, he digs his phone out and feels a brief stab of guilt when he sees Mrs. Hudson had try to call. He dials her back then, at this point worried that she’s calling when she knows he’s at work. 

She’s started packing more of Sherlock’s things, she tells him, and he tightens his grip on the phone and he’s sure he knows that she’ll ask him to help again. And he knows he should, there are too many dangerous objects, a hundred different things in the kitchen alone for an old woman to handle by herself. He begins to mentally resolve himself to going back to at least help clean out the body parts.

His breath catches when instead she tells him she needs help with Sherlock’s wardrobe. She knows John had stopped by the flat before the funeral to pack up his own clothing and essentials, so she’s confused to have found so many of what she had thought were John’s jumpers mixed in with Sherlock’s clothing and would he be a dear and help sort it out? Only she doesn’t want to risk donating one of John’s jumpers by mistake.

He finds his breath again and manages to murmur something about being over soon. He makes his excuses to Sarah who still only looks at him sadly and leaves the surgery early for the day. His taxi ride to Baker Street is spent in a daze, and his hand is trembling where it rests on his knee. He feels a twinge there, in his knee, and begins to worry that his limp actually is returning.

—-

Mrs. Hudson greets him outside of Speedy’s and ushers him up the stairs and she’s saying something to him, but his head is buzzing and he’s trying not to look anywhere except his feet and it hurts to be here, to feel this raw again and he’s not ready for this after all.

But she’s steering him through the kitchen now, back to Sherlock’s room. He stops in the doorway and tries to reassure her that he’ll be fine by himself and her face scrunches up for a bare second and then falls slack again when she sees the pain on John’s face. She leaves him.

John stands there a moment, taking in Sherlock’s room again. The green damask wallpaper. The posters on the wall that he quietly laughed at the first time he saw them (he teased Sherlock for thinking Poe was a heart throb for far longer than he would have though Sherlock could tolerate). 

He breathes in the air that is Sherlock, breathes in what is left of him here and walks over to sit on the edge of the bed before his legs can give up on him. The closet door is open and John can tell where Mrs. Hudson has disturbed the clothing and sure enough, John can see the sleeve of at least one of his jumpers. He’ll go over and sort through clothes soon, but he still needs a moment.  
  
As he sits there, his hands have begun to smooth out the sheets on the bed, and he encounters a lump under the bedding that won’t be pressed down. He pulls back the sheets and sees the familiar purple of Sherlock’s favorite shirt, wadded up and now hopelessly wrinkled.

His hands are shaking more than ever as he brings the shirt close to him, rubbing the familiar fabric between his fingers. A choked sound escapes his throat as he raises the shirt to his face and he buries his nose in it, and he thinks  _Yes Yes Yes_  because it’s Sherlock’s scent, so perfectly there, so strong and he forgets for a moment that he’s sitting by himself and Sherlock is not spread out on the bed behind him, his feet resting against John’s back as he recites the properties of one thing or other.

———-

Mrs. Hudson thanks him later for packing up all of Sherlock’s clothing for her, and for taking it with him in one large box. She assumes he’s donating it. He smiles at her reassuringly and says little because he’s still trying not to start shaking again. The box is clutched in both of his hands, well sealed with lots of packing tape and John will not let go of it, even in the cab back to Sarah’s flat.

Later, John transfers the clothing from the moving box that smells too strongly of cardboard and will mold easily with the slightest bit of damp, and into a new plastic bin that slides easily under his bed. For weeks John Watson has the pleasure of being able to open the lid of that box and inhaling the familiar smell of Sherlock Holmes. On the bad days, or when he wakes from a particularly violent nightmare, he carefully selects a shirt from the box and sleeps with it pressed to his face.

But despite his careful rationing and efforts to open the box of clothing as little as possible, the smell of Sherlock slowly fades to nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry this ended on such a sad note Q_Q I promise someday I'll try writing something more upbeat.


End file.
